Pearling Ash

Rating: T

Summary: Modern AU. Arthur couldn't move on. It was his fault. It always would be his fault. But Francis will help him to see that there is always a forgiving Angel to soothe a troubled heart. FrUK

BrooklynBabbii

Recommended Listening: "My Immortal" by Evanescence

Well, Waveripple of Team Sunrise asked for a one-shot of France, since she won the title of 80th reviewer for my other story: "Blue Embers."

She didn't name a specific pairing, simply asked for a gentle France/Francis, and I was in a FrUK mood, so there you have it.

Read and enjoy fellow readers.

.:Pearling Ash:.

The screech of tires and the loud blares of several horns, they all meshed together to carry over the horrified scream of:

"Alfred!"

It had been nearly a year now. But Arthur still hadn't gotten rid of the boxes. They were boxes of belongings, Alfred's belongings…but Arthur couldn't bring himself to throw them away or put them away in the basement. He couldn't do it, he had tried several times, but the moment he would find the courage to do so, and he would try to emotionally ready himself to go and put them all away, the wind would blow.

He would stop.

It was because the color of the Alfred's curtains reminded Arthur of the color of its former tenant's eyes. Arthur could never move past the doorway. He always fell down his knees. Sometimes, he would cry, but most of the time, he grew numb, as if cold, and then he just turned around and locked the door. He would walk away and not look back.

He could never clean out that room. He had tried for a whole year, after the…Accident. But he could never bring himself to actually move past the doorway. He wasn't strong enough to push past the barrier. He was starting to think that he never would be.

Today was the day after one of the days he had tried.

Arthur sipped his early morning tea; it was stronger than usual, because he hadn't been able to properly sleep. Not to say that he was still tired, no, he just needed something to keep him alert. Whenever he tried to clean out the room, he would have nightmares. Horrible ones, cruel images of the day for which he was to blame. But in these, Alfred didn't leave as suddenly as he had truly gone, instead, he was laughing.

Laughing at Arthur for trying to move on, called him the damned, and said that the damned never moved past the Devil's reach.

Sighing, Arthur put the tea cup down, and looked at the two empty seats across from him. One was Alfred's, and Arthur never seat there, as was custom when…Alfred had been a regular participant in meals and anything to do in the kitchen. The other chair was reserved for Mathew, Alfred's fraternal twin brother. Mathew had, after Alfred had gone, left for some wealthy and exclusive boarding school in Canada. He had told Arthur it wasn't because of him. But Arthur knew.

It was just memories, and the human need to detach itself from the bad memories in order to ease the mind into the path of healing. Some days, Arthur envied Mathew, for his ability to fly away and become invisible.

Rimming his finger over the porcelain cup, Arthur imagined he saw someone looking back at him…Well, that is, until he realized they were actually there.

"Gah!" Arthur gasped, clutching at his chest, and then his face turned to an irritated scowl. "Frog, when did you get in here? I don't believe I gave you permission to enter my house." Said Frenchman, actually by the name of Francis, sighed and tried to smile down at the Englishman attempting to kill him with glares.

He was a bit paler than that Arthur remembered him being, and he was wearing makeup on his face. He was hiding something. Not only that, but the way he carried himself. It was if he was afraid of his own self. He held one arm in front of his middle at all times. But if Arthur had looked even closer, he would have known that the other's shirt looked a bit more open on him. Francis had lost weight.

"You gave me a key," Francis replied, cocking his head and revealing said keys whilst out of Arthur's reach, but clear in his view, "Remember?" He smiled, as if nothing was wrong. But nothing was wrong with him, at least in his eyes, others may say so, but he didn't have to believe them.

He wouldn't let them deter him from his mission. His mission to save Arthur Kirkland, and to bring back the fiery man that he met through a lunchroom brawl in elementary school and basically found himself tied at the hip to ever since.

Arthur stared at the keys, trying to melt them under his gaze. "No," he said firmly, "I don't recall doing such a thing…"

Francis shrugged. He had had a feeling that Arthur would say something like that. "Well," he said, leaning his body on the stove, and eying the picture of Alfred and Mathew at Disney World, while they were both still little. "I didn't come here to bother you."

"You always come here to bother me," Arthur grumbled, as he took another drank of his tea. He tried to ignore where Francis' eyes were. He didn't need another reason to have another nightmare. He already was on the verge of losing his mind.

"Not this time," Francis replied. He sighed, pushing himself off the counter completely. "I actually came here to ask you…to ask you about something or another."

"You came to ask me what?" Arthur asked. Francis paused, and then said after a brief hesitation, "Arthur…the anniversary is in a week. I wanted to ask that you come with me."

A pregnant silence followed the Frenchman's words. Arthur's knuckles were white, and Francis chose the risk to pry the cup from his hands. He stood in front of Arthur, and said, "Arthur. You need this more than anyone. You need to make peace."

Arthur was silent, and Francis pressed further, "Arthur, please. Your friends are worried, Mathew claims you haven't called him at all since, and I've heard that –"

"No," Arthur said firmly, as if to end the discussion. "I won't do it."

"But Arthur," Francis tried again, "I don't think you understand—"

"I don't think you understand, Frog! I said I won't do it!" Arthur suddenly snapped, nearly disrupting his chair from its upright state, as he jumped to his feet and glared at the Frenchman he had once called…well, he had once been something to Arthur. But right now, Arthur thought of him as being a bastard.

"I can't do it!" Arthur continued to yell, "Ask all you want. Call whoever, but no one is going to make me go up for any bloody reason!" They could never know. They could even hope to comprehend! How dare they think they know what he was going through!

No one had seen Alfred the same way as Arthur had, they could never known just what the Englishman had endured in those final moments. But unbeknownst to Arthur, this one man named Francis, the one in front of him, he wasn't trying to assume. He wasn't trying to be all-knowing. He just waited his friend back.

Francis said nothing, as the Englishman started to lose more of the composure he had slowly but surely been stripped of, since the Accident. "None of you were there, when it happened! You don't know! You could never know! You didn't see him..!" He was crying, when he finally left, he was crying…

Arthur's head was now bowed to the floor, liquid starting to burn his eyes and his face burning, as he repeated, "You didn't see him… You never saw the way that he looked…" The way the other said, "The way he looked at me…He just –" He died in my arms…

It tore the Frenchman in more than two, and more than he thought it should have. Arthur used to be so strong. He used to be as vibrant, as alive, as the boys he raised from toddlers. To see the other so broken, so devoid of the old armor and smile and just pure and exuberant happiness that he used to have…it hurt him. it cut so deeply into Francis, it was almost as if he was being punished for something too, but he knew that he was only feeling a bare sliver of everything that Arthur could and probably was going through.

Francis was silent, and so were his footsteps as he closed the space between them and just held the other's shoulders, as the other let a pair of tears fall to the tiled floor. The scuff mark that Alfred had made from his one of his teen years was still there. It had never come out.

Arthur hated it right now, he hated how everything reminded him of the adopted bloke he had had for a son, but called his 'little brother'. He had raised Alfred and Mathew, as his own, they were his family, with yet not a trace of Kirkland blood.

To see his own son die right in front of him had been one of the two worst things to ever happen to him. The first was when he had found out his mother had died of cancer, and that he himself ran a high risk of being the same. He still didn't know whether or not that he was lucky to be alive.

Come to think of it, Arthur slowly remembered with a slow growing pit of misery in his stomach, Alfred had been there with him that day. He had been the one to catch the Brit when he fell at the news, and just talk to him, until the shock left and both simply cried. When the two returned home, they had had to tell Mathew that their beloved Nana Marie had lost her fight.

The boys cried so hard. They loved their Nana. Even if she wasn't their actual grandmother, she had raised and loved Arthur's adopted children as if they truly were only hers. To known she was gone, that she had…passed, and it just hurt all three of them so deeply.

"Mon ami," Francis tried to soothe, "I don't know how you feel." Arthur shook his head, against the other's shirt, not caring that he was dirtying it with his tears. He didn't want to care about anything at all. He just wanted to cry, to let out of the damned and accursed burning tears that had built up behind his eyes and the horrible pain in his chest, all whenever he thought of the little boy he had had to let go.

"But I do know that this cannot go on," the Frenchman continued, "I can't stand to see you hurting yourself. Let me help you. Please," he added, as if pleading with the other to at least let him try to help him.

But Arthur continued to shake his head against the other's chest, "I can't, Francis. I wouldn't be doing myself any justice if I just –"

Francis cut him off, hoping he had chosen his words right, "Then, do it for him, Arthur. Prove to Alfred that when he left, he didn't leave a stranger, but the strong-willed and abled body that raised him." Arthur stiffened, as Francis continued, "Don't let him think that he died in the arms of a stranger, Arthur…"

Arthur pulled his head away from the other's chest, raised his head so that their eyes were at least more able to meet, as the other said, "Because, up until you grew angry, did I see any resemblance to the man who raised Alfred and Mathew. That was not Arthur Kirkland."

Arthur was confused. He had not changed his name, or his identity. What was Francis going on about? He was same, as he ever was. He was simply grieving over the loss of his dear children –

"Only his shell was left to grieve over something that was never his…"

Something twitched inside of the Englishman. He felt some ire start to trickle in through his veins. A shell? Not even his –? How dare that bastard try to say that –!

But then it clicked, and it clicked painfully and soundly into place inside of Arthur's chest. In that one moment, right as he opened his mouth to make some heated retort, he went still. And he just saw himself.

Arthur Kirkland was strong. He was blunt, and he was bold. He was a gentleman and well-mannered. He told someone off, with the choicest of words, and thought nothing of it. Especially, not if he thought they had it coming. He was a man well admired, whether by his co-workers, as a successful lobbyist, or well desired by women simply because of the way that he carried himself and treated others with the respect that were called for.

He was not the same Arthur Kirkland. He had lost his edge, what made him stand out among the other well-mannered eye candies with accents. He had lost his tongue, when he barely spoke. He had lost his fire, when the light in his eyes had dimmed. He had lost his wit, when his mind closed itself off in his grief.

He had become a skeleton of his former self. He was Arthur Kirkland, and yet not. He was not Arthur Kirkland. Alfred had died in the arms of a near stranger. His father was named Arthur Kirkland, and that was not the name of the man whose arms he had died in.

His name might have damn well have been Marley Jenkins, because at the moment, when Alfred needed to see his true father, only a stranger had been there to watch him go. No wonder he had cried.

His father hadn't been truly there. Everything and anything that he could have said, was never said, because Arthur hadn't been there.

Only a shadow of the man that Arthur Kirkland was had been there. Alfred had figuratively died alone, in the arms of someone he had never known.

"No," Arthur sighed at long last, as he opened his watery eyes, "I don't want him to think of me as dead…I-"

"Just come to the anniversary, Arthur," Francis said, as he tried to rub small circles in the other's back. Something in him pained him, but it was not his heart. He held back the cough. There was no time for him to scare the one he wanted to heal the most. His own pains could wait. "There will only be a few of us: Me, you, little Mathieu, and Alfred's Ivan."

Arthur's nose wrinkled at the name, and Francis tried to smile at it. Arthur had never grown to like his son's best friend since childhood. It was most likely because he had seen himself as his own mother, when he had been called from work to know that Alfred had fought another student in the cafeteria…

…Over something he hadn't even known the half about, but was willing to have a bloody lip for. Arthur had never lived it down, while Alfred always used it as a reason to have something to laugh about. It was just like him and Francis. Except, they had been arguing about each other's hair; Francis didn't like Arthur's bedhead and Arthur didn't like Francis' ponytails.

"Hmph," Arthur grumbled something under his breath, trying to save face as he tore a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to wipe the evidence off his face.

"What was that?" Francis tried to tease; it was a bit hard for him to get the words out. He would need to take something for his pain soon. He had to remain with Arthur, for the time being. The others' words could wait. He resisted the urge to twirl a lock of his hair, knowing what would happen if he did.

"Oh shut up, Frog," Arthur said, looking away and missing how an almost bright twinkle lit up Francis' eyes, before they dimmed back down. But then again, it could have been the lighting. "I'll go, but no funny business."

"Oh mon ami," Francis forced himself to laugh, though it pained him, "How you wound me so." Arthur allowed himself a slight smile in response, as he completed their little shared routine: "Whatever, Frog."

The day of the anniversary came before Arthur even knew what to do with himself. He had just woken up, like any other day, and gotten ready to continue his life, and was brushing his hair in the mirror….when his brush caught in his hair, and when he tugged it loose, he spied two grey hairs.

All at once, his chest constricted and his eyes burned. But for some reason, out of some miracle or curse, Francis' words came back: "Only his shell was left to grieve over something that was never his…"

Arthur steeled himself on the inside, swallowed an ounce of courage and made it through his morning routine. It was only when he passed by Alfred's room, and spied a crack in the door, when he knew he had shut it completely and locked it.

He stared at the door, silently, hearing the birds chirp from outside Alfred's window and almost feel the sun's rays warming up the hallway through the slit of the door. Arthur bit his lip, and then walked back to it, cautiously. He put his hand to the door, feeling his hands empty of the boxes, and for once, feeling slightly better since the Accident.

He walked inside, and the wind blew.

But Arthur did not fall, instead, he felt himself smile as a tear made it past his eye in the morning. He could nearly imagine that Alfred, with his normal teenage habits, was sleeping sloppily on the bed, the covers pretty much everywhere as the American boy snored loudly. Mathew would be sleeping face first, like he always had, his earphones crossed over his head. Both boys would have their glasses skewed over their eyes, despite how Arthur chided them both for sleeping with them on.

Arthur felt something in his chest, for the first time in a year, not pain, as he walked inside further. The image of his sleeping teenage boys turned into an imaginary fixation of them as little toddlers, when both were too scared to sleep without the other. When Arthur would find himself waking up in the rocking chair that Alfred refused to let move out of the corner of his room, with two boys snuggled into his chest, a warm blanket around all three of them.

That memory of them faded, as Arthur turned to the mirrored wall over Alfred's dresser, as he saw himself years younger as he chided a teenage Alfred laughing as he tried to style his hair with gel to imitate Arthur's messy haired look.

Arthur smiled sadly, and yet warmly in the memory, as he turned around yet once more and saw Alfred in his mirror, his face calm and serious, while he was wearing a handsome suit, as Arthur stood with a proud look in his eyes as he took in the sight of his nearly grown son. Alfred had a crooked grin then, as a bright flash appeared, as he ruined the mature look and made a silly face when Arthur tried to take a picture.

Arthur chuckled at the charming memory. He remembered all too well how that night had ended, with Arthur fussing over the boy, and then going to sit in the rocking chair and just slump. He remembered Alfred trying to apologize, whilst laughing, and Mathew trying to reassure his father that he would keep Alfred from pulling any more stupid stunts.

The Brit remembered only raising a thick brow and saying, "When the Frog goes celibate." He remembered how red his own face got from his joke, how hard Alfred laughed, and how Mathew sputtered and tried not to have himself bent over and wheezing like his brother was. They had enjoyed the joke in all good humor.

Arthur turned to leave the room, feeling more confident that he might be able to put away a few more things, when suddenly his worst memory of the room appeared in the doorway.

Alfred's back was to the real Arthur in the center of his room, but the American teenager was shouting at the Arthur in the hallway. Mathew was there, as well, trying to push his brother back into the room, as Francis – Arthur didn't remember him being there at day, but then again, he hadn't really been paying too much of attention – as Francis tried to hold him back from doing anything rash.

But it seemed both the efforts of the ones who were holding the Brit and American back were in near complete vain. Mathew wasn't strong enough to completely control his brother, and the American was taking advantage of it as he kept trying to throw himself forward, still continuing to shoot at Arthur.

Arthur wasn't giving Francis any time either, he kept jabbing and pointing at Alfred, undoubtedly saying something hurtful and uncalled for, if the tears pricking the teen's eyes were any indicator.

Arthur made to turn his head, because he knew what came next – When, Arthur leaned a bit too far forward and said something that crossed the line and Alfred would finally push his brother aside and lunge at his father, crying out the words that had haunted Arthur's dreams in the past year:

"I hate you!"

"Mon ami?"

Arthur was startled, as he suddenly found himself in the old rocking chair, and pulling his hairs from his hair. There were nail gouges in his palm, some bleedings with the rest not too far behind, along with a few pulled blond hairs and a single grey hair.

There was wetness all down his face, and a heavy pain set in Arthur's chest, as he looked up and saw Francis in another looser-than-normal shirt. He was really trying to force himself to smile, as if he was trying to hide himself from his own self, and he looked like he was wearing even more make-up, as he extended his hand to the Brit. "Arthur, come on, get out of the chair."

Arthur blinked, feeling as though something was unreal or that he was in something of a dreamlike trance. But he felt himself suddenly jarred awake and felt reality hit home hard, as he heard footsteps and then his little Mathew appear from the hallway.

He was trying to smile, too, but his looked less forced than Francis. His words hit home even harder, "Hey Dad…" Arthur felt himself bite his lip, his eyes burn, as Mathew shuffled on his feet and then look down at the floor as if ashamed he had spoken. He was holding one arm, and then drawing invisible circles in the wooden floor.

Arthur ignored Francis' extended hand, and rushed to his remaining son. He took the boy in a tight hug, even though the other was a full head taller than him now. Arthur just held him, and tried to laugh at the irony. He had dreamt of the night he had lost one son, when one had flown all the way to see him.

"I missed you," Arthur said, "I'm so sorry. I am so sorry, Mathew," He kept repeating himself over and over, his grip never relenting, as if he was afraid that Mathew would leave him too. But the young man didn't, he just smiled with the beginnings of tears in his near violet-blue eyes and said, "I missed you too, Dad, but you don't have anything to be sorry for. I can't say that I wouldn't have done the same, but it's okay, I'm okay, you're okay, and everything's going to be okay, alright?"

Arthur felt himself shudder with the voice of his son, as he tried to hug him tighter. Mathew didn't seem to mind at all, while Francis looked on, holding his own hands close, and having a slightly faraway look in his eyes.

Mathew's final words were the icing on the cake. "You don't have to beat yourself over…this, anymore, eh?" The accent that he had acquired from Canada coming through, as he tightened his own grip on his father. "I'm sorry for leaving you, when you needed me there most."

Arthur smiled through his tears, and gave Mathew back his own words, "you don't have anything to be sorry, for. I can't say that I wouldn't have done the same. I-I'm okay," the Brit pulled away so that he could look his son in the face, his cheeks were still slightly plump with baby fat.

"You're okay," he stammered, and Mathew nodded, and the young man finished the line with his father, as they both said, "Everything is going to be okay, now."

Arthur felt Francis put a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to smile at his old friend, Mathew smiled at the older man whom he had called and thought to be his uncle his whole life. The Frenchman repeated the words that both of them needed to hear from Arthur once more:

"Everything is going to be okay, now."

As the words left Arthur's mouth, he felt somewhere in him that was some truth to those pieces of English syllables. Francis nodded at his old friend, and murmured, "We should get going now, and I don't want to make us all late."

Mathew nodded at him, and then reluctantly let go of Arthur. Arthur felt the warmth leave him, and felt another settle over him as the wind from the window blew. It almost felt like Alfred was trying to hold him. A tiny speck of wind blew on his cheek, and Arthur nearly imagined that his oldest son was trying to kiss his cheek.

He hoped it was not in good-bye.

The drive to the gravesite was a short one, but no less nerve-wracking. With every light that Francis stopped at, and in every way Mathew's smile seemed more or less forced. Arthur felt his palms grow sweaty, and he rubbed them on his pants.

He looked over to Francis, who was concentrated on driving. His lone wedding ring sat on his finger, in memory of the only woman to have ever bewitched him. She had blessed him with a daughter named Selina, and then she was cursed to die in a car accident not even two years late due to a drunk driver. The fact that Francis never remarried or even thought to try dating again was a testament to her memory.

Arthur had no such wife, he had had a girlfriend, one of which he would have made his wife in his late teens, but somehow one way or another, they had drifted apart and…just never really drifted back. They broke up, and just stayed apart.

Arthur couldn't think of any reason why he had left in the end, when he could have tried to fix things. But he remembered the way she looked at him in the end, as if she couldn't be bothered to remember why she wanted him to stay either. The Brit figured that it was a mutual thing that they break up. He hadn't really tried much dating after that, and no woman really caught his eye and proved to actually love him and not his money or namesake.

"Dad?"

Arthur blinked, and found Mathew snapping his fingers at him, from outside the car. Ivan was standing beside him, trying to smile, despite the slight bags under his eyes. He was holding a cup of coffee to Arthur, and holding his own, the lone silver ring on his finger from Alfred's old unofficial high school proposal.

Ivan still had the old sunflower pin still kept up in his faded pink scarf. Alfred had given it to the other, in their middle grade years, when the two were young friends, as a birthday present. Even after all of this time, Ivan had kept it, and never let anyone talk him into taking it out. Not that Arthur or Mathew or Francis would let him anyways.

Francis was taking a few deep breaths in the cold wintry air, seeming to have some difficulty, and yet feigning to seem alright. He was standing by himself, in the front of his car, and looking very tired. His makeup looked even thicker in the sunlight. The sun looked to be trying to go through his hair, as if it was thinner than Arthur had ever remembered it to be. The Frenchman looked back at his old friend, and tried to flip back his hair and smile.

Arthur missed the sight of a few golden and white hairs simply falling at that single gesture. Francis' hair was falling out. It was also greying, despite how he was barely a year or a few months over Arthur's own age.

Said Brit swallowed, and held onto his coat, as he exited the car, and walked around to see the entire gravesite spread out beyond the slight and lolling hills. He felt himself start to think about going back home and just going to bed with a bottle of whisky like a coward, when he felt Mathew take his hand. He looked up at his son, just as Francis took his other hand. Ivan put a gentle hand on the man he had once joked about calling his "father-in-law".

"Shall we?" The Russian man asked, gesturing out, and Arthur followed his hand. He swallowed, and then nodded, as he said, "Yes. Let's go."

So began the small trek to the grave that held a young man who had once had so much to live for, only to have his life abruptly cut with Fate's scissors. The first person to say something was Ivan, as he moved around everyone and simply sat beside the grave and patted its dirt, whispering, "Hello again, Fredka…"

The Russian's hyacinth eyes were both warm and yet melancholy. He tried to brush away the dying ivy that was spread all over Alfred's grave stone.

ALFRED FOSTER-ABRAHAM JONES-KIRKLAND

JULY 4, 1993 – FEBRUARY 22, 2012

A LOVING SON AND BROTHER

A DEAREST FRIEND

The last part had been added in for Ivan, when Arthur and Mathew had set about to make it. Even while Alfred and Ivan may have been more, Ivan refused to put 'lover' on the gravestone. He said he did not want any idiots prancing over Alfred's grave and laughing and jeering at him. Arthur and Mathew hadn't bothered to argue with him further, after that explanation.

Arthur pulled Mathew down with him, the three living males all sitting on the earth, under the winter bare willow tree. Francis was the only one still remaining standing.

Arthur took off his glove, and then wiped a speck of dried ivy from one of the letters in the gravestone. He licked his thumb and then wiped it, just as he had done when Alfred had had something on his face. The feeling of doing something familiar, even to a simple stone, made him feel better.

Mathew was the next to speak, "Hey Al." He smiled, and then he just blurted something to lighten the heavy and near mind-numbing depression that was hanging over all of them. "Did you know that Dad still leaves your night light on?"

Arthur started, as his face reddened beyond the cold. Ivan raised a brow, as he tried to hide his smirk within his scarf. Francis smiled gently, and then bent slowly as his joints pained him.

"We-well, Mathew still has the old polar bear hair bow you gave him in second grade!" Arthur retorted, and Ivan allowed himself a snicker. Mathew reddened, as he sputtered himself, "How did you know!"

Arthur smirked, as Francis tapped the young man's shoulder, and then pointed to his pocket where said article was visible. Mathew sputtered, as he tried to stuff it further in, and then gave up and sighed. He took it out and then, as he bit his lip, he turned to his father with warm eyes. "Dad? Would you do the honors?"

"Gladly," was the Brit's reply, as he took the faded polar bear ribbon and tied a short ponytail to the back of Mathew's hair. But then, Mathew frowned, "Who taught Al to braid, Dad?"

Arthur shook his head, "Not me." They looked to Francis, who shocked the two as he said, "Alfred doesn't braid the same way as I do." The Frenchman tried to appear haughty, even though his words seemed a bit shallow in the cold, as he said, "The French way which is far more super—"

"I taught him," Ivan spoke up, and then put down his coffee. He beckoned Mathew over, and after Arthur shifted a bit to adjust the space, the Russian male did a swift braid into Mathew's hair. When he was done, Mathew blinked. It was a really nice braid.

Francis nodded at it, and then said, "Not French, but very well done, all the same." He tried to pat the other on the shoulder. "I knew I had influenced someone in Arthur's house." Said Brit rolled his eyes, as Mathew simply smiled and enjoyed fingering the tip of loose hair from the braid.

Ivan just went along with it, and then added on, "And am I to assume that is a good thing, da? I'm not going to have Arthur chase me out of his house with a piece of charcoal like he does you, da?"

Everyone blinked, as they all thought: Charcoal?

Arthur caught on last, unsurprisingly, just as Mathew was giggling and Francis was pretending to cough into his elbow over his laugh. Or maybe he really was coughing.

"You take that back, Peter Piper!" Arthur snapped, but then he was laughing. Actually laughing, as Ivan's eyes went wide, and his mouth opened and then he laughed. Mathew caught onto the reference of the memory of Ivan and Alfred as the Peter Pan twins, back in their childhood. Francis wiped something from his mouth, and simply smiled, though his face was paler and his lips seemed a bit redder on one side.

That was how the afternoon soon went; all of them making jokes at each other's shared past with Alfred. From Mathew confessing that he used to feel guilty when he was younger, when he wet the bed, and Alfred would take the blame.

How Arthur remembered when Alfred would come in, after he played outside in the rain, and go: "DID YOU GUYS KNOW THAT THE RAIN IS AWESOME FOR OUR GRASS?" He usually did this, when he had caked his shoes in mud, and was trying to distract his father from noticing until he could clean his shoes.

Most of the time, it worked, actually.

Ivan recalled the times when he and Alfred would get into trouble, whether in gym, for purposely going onto opposite teams as a reason to beat the other. He recalled the time, when Ivan's father was called, because Alfred broke the gym window, and Ivan had taken the blame. That is, until Alfred came in, from behind the door and confessed, crying. Then Arthur was called, and the principal hadn't punished either boy, although Ivan's father had told Alfred he was lucky to have a friend to take his licks for him, and to keep him.

They recalled the good times and the bad. When Alfred had broken Mathew's arm and his own ankle, from throwing them both off the roof, because they were bored. When Ivan's father had died in his sleep, at the age of 52, while he was in high school, and how Alfred had basically demanded that Arthur take in both Ivan and his little sister, so they wouldn't be put into foster care with "some sicko".

How Arthur had still said no, but used some of his political influence to get them in the hands of a friend and his wife, who had wanted a child but couldn't have one. How Ivan and even his little sister had thanked the Brit with "solid Russian hugs", and how Alfred had sprung out of nowhere, told them to break it up so that he could join in too.

They recalled how they found out that one way or another how Alfred and Mathew had both told Arthur he couldn't cook, and that they would cook for the house, if the Brit bought groceries. How embarrassed Arthur had been, but had reluctantly agreed.

They recalled the more awkward and funny times, like when Mathew had dared Alfred to walk out the house in drag, with a sign that said: "Have you seen my PONY?" How Arthur had gotten a call from Francis saying that he had to see his son now. How Arthur had used his lunch break early to see his son in drag with that sign, and had laughed.

How Mathew had once caught Ivan and Alfred in the act of something, and threatened to tell Arthur if his brother didn't agree to drive him when he asked to. But how Alfred had gotten tired of Mathew, and told his brother to snitch on him. How the younger had gone to Arthur and said it, how all had held their breath, and then how Arthur had said he had known for the past few months because Alfred was loud.

They called the day when Alfred had found a puppy and then brought it home, calling it "Wonder Woman", and basically raised it in near secret. How Arthur had found it out, on one of his day offs, and how he had taken it to the vet only to learn that the puppy was male…

Thus "Captain America" was officially adopted, and everyone tried to forget the WW name tag that Alfred had tried to hide in the silverware drawer.

There was the day when Alfred had gotten a neat toy from overseas, from one of Ivan's foster father's trips around the world. It had been an alien with red eyes, that he had named Tony. Tony still sat in Alfred's room, and still liked to randomly turn on and walk off the dresser and shot toy missiles at and only at Arthur, ever since Alfred had gotten it.

There was the day that Alfred had found Ivan with an unconscious Natayla, crying silently and rocking back and forth. The poor girl had settled into more than one wrong crowd, on more than one occasion, and nearly fallen into a dangerous lifestyle. When Ivan had found her, wobbling on some street corner in a short and flashy outfit, he had taken her home, only to realize she was still caught in her drug-of-choice's grip.

She kept sputtering marriage, her uncontrollable love for her brother, and then randomly becoming violent. She had struck Ivan with a lamp, and when he had stumbled, and then fallen, she had suddenly broke. She began crying, sobbing and then wailing. Ivan assured her he was alright, but it was a long time before the girl could close her glazed eyelids.

But because Ivan's foster family could not afford to keep her, Natayla chose to go to Russia, where their older sister was living to work off her addiction there. It was a difficult decision, and she was only fifteen. But she did it. Ivan had cried so hard, since his father's death, he had tried to hold his baby sister for as long as he could.

Time flew by so quickly, until fingers grew cold and lips started to change color, and Francis started to look even worse for wear. To the point where he had tried to laugh, as they were all leaving – Ivan to his own car and the others to Francis' car— when the Frenchman found himself simply falling forward and collapsing.

How Mathew and Arthur had panicked at the suddenly unconscious Frenchman, and how Ivan had turned around and rushed back. The Russian had fumbled to call 911, and paramedics had arrived to cart the downed blonde away. How since no one was Francis' direct family, Arthur had all but ripped the door handle from the paramedic's hand and said that no one was going to leave him behind again, if he had anything to say about it.

Arthur had told Mathew to drive Francis' car to the house, and for Ivan to drive to the hospital, so he had a ride home. He had acted every bit like the Arthur Kirkland that had raised Alfred and Mathew, the one who snapped and verbally fought with Francis, and who had had to come to get used to the Russian that his eldest son had tied himself to.

He rode in the ambulance with the paramedics, and simply held Francis and cursed him in broken French, as he fought back tears at the unconscious form. By the time that the vehicle had arrived to the hospital, the paramedics had run out of operations.

Francis still hadn't opened his eyes.

Only after the nurses and doctors had finished with all that they could do, it was near midnight, and Arthur found himself hearing another doctor apologize to him: "I'm sorry, but we've done all that we can do."

But this time, it wasn't his mother with cancer.

It wasn't Alfred, with a fatal damage to his internal organs from a head-on collision with a larger car.

It was his own old childhood friend, Francis. A long time ago, Francis had had leukemia, around his late teens, as that had run in his family and taken his mother, and he had taken a donation to get better. But…the donation had carried a horrible tenant. Said tenant had laid dormant in the Frenchman's blood for years, and then had only recently surfaced within the year of Alfred's death.

Just as Alfred had died in Arthur's arms, in the hospital on February 22nd, Francis been diagnosed with Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome. And although the Francis could afford the medicine, and he took it, he had shown no improvement and had only steadily grown weaker and weaker.

It was on February 23rd, a few hours into the day after the anniversary of his son's death, that Arthur found himself walking into another hospital room and seeing yet another dying face.

His mother had smiled at him, saying "I'll be out of here, in no time, love! This bloody hospital can only keep me here for so long!" She had said the truth in a sense. She was checked out of the hospital…and checked into the morgue, about a week later.

On her last day to her family, her sons – Arthur and all three of his brothers – and grandbabies, including Alfred and Mathew, Nana Marie had smiled and told them how she had danced with Arthur's father in the streets of London, when World War II ended.

But she had died alone, and according to a nurse, whilst singing an old song from that same era to an unseen person in the room called "Quinn"

Alfred had died in Alfred's arms, on his way to the ICU. How he had been crying and saying something that couldn't been made sense of in the gargled mess of blood that Alfred's mouth kept spilling out. How he had kept shaking his head in a mad way, as he tried to keep Arthur's hand, despite how the nurses shoved at Arthur to move. In reality, Alfred had been apologizing. He had been repeating how sorry he was, how he would be good if given the chance, and that he hoped that Arthur forgave him and didn't cry for him.

But he hadn't been given that chance, as the nurses finally shoved Arthur away, and his son's hand finally pulled away from his, cold and clammy. How Alfred's eyes had widened at the sudden loss of feeling, as he saw Arthur grow smaller, and cried his last tears, before the light in his eyes simply dimmed.

The surgeons had never had a chance of saving him. By the time that Alfred had hit the table, someone was already calling him dead and telling a nurse to take down the time. How some nurses had tried to break the news to Arthur, but he had refused to listen, as he cried in the middle of the hallway.

Arthur had tried to save his son that day. He had ran after him, when he had gotten in his car to drive away, after their fight…only to see his son pull out of the street too early and be plowed into and basically thrown across the street by a braking truck.

He had dumbly witnessed the crash, heard the screeching of the tires and had shouted the first thing to come to mind: "Alfred!"

He had ran across the street, ignoring car horns and everything else, as he dove to the wreckage, and broken the window to open the door and pull his son out. Only to see him, hardly halfway gone, for even if Alfred had survived the initial blow, the way his ribs were simply open and broken to the air spelled disaster for the future.

He had known even when Alfred was being pulled away from him that he wouldn't make it through the surgery, or even the night. He had known, but it had still hurt. It still hurt, because it was his fault. It was his fault. It would always be his fault.

And now, Arthur was going to lose someone else. But this time, he didn't know who to blame…

Francis was connected to so many machines, he had so many tubes into his arms, his nose and even down his throat. Someone had wiped off the makeup that Francis had used to keep his condition hidden, and now his scars were fully visible.

His face was paler than Arthur had ever seen him. His veins were fully visible. His hair was spread all over the pillow, the once billowy golden wealth now the color of dirty dishwater and thinner than it used to be. The roots were going darker, and there were more grey hairs.

There were deep and dark bags under his eyes. His lips were almost paler than his face, save for the speck of blood at the corner of his lips. His cheeks were sunken in, and he looked so bony, so weak and just so…un-Francis.

Francis used to the vision of optimum health. His skin would glow, he was slightly tanned, and his hair was thick and silky and golden. He would laugh, it was an admirable baritone that cajoled women and made everyone around him laugh with him, even if the joke wasn't funny.

He had some fat to him, but it was never noticed by anyone, not that Francis had cared. He still worked to keep it from being noticed. He ate well and healthy, and had few an enemy, unless it was someone who rightfully deserved his anger at him, which were few. The Frenchman was a lover, not a fighter, everyone loved him…

So why was he alone in this hospital, if everyone loved him?

Arthur blinked, upon the initial sight of him, and walked over to the bedside chair. He numbly sat, and then blinked.

His vision blurred, and then he cried. "It's not fair…I can't handle losing everyone." He tried to take his friend's hand, tried to ignore the weak pulse and how starkly the man's veins stood out on his skin. How he felt like he could crush it, if he wasn't careful.

"You stupid Frog…" Arthur sad, as the tears began to fall, "You promised to help, not hurt…"

Francis didn't open his eyes, until a few hours on the day of his soon-to-be death. It had been a full week. When he opened his eyes, he had taken a wobbly and shallow breath, and opened drug-clouded eyes to see someone with vibrant green eyes and bushy eyes looking back at him.

He had smiled, but it looked like he was drunk or too far gone from the drug high to even be close to comforting to the Brit next to him.

Arthur spoke first, and went straight to the point, "Why, Francis? Why are you doing this to me?"

Said Frenchman smiled, more realistically, and then made a dreamy sigh, "Friends can… help each other." He began, taking a regular shallow breath to continue. "A true friend is… someone who lets you have total freedom to…to be yourself - and especially to feel. Or, not feel."

Arthur blinked back tears, he remembered this quote. Francis saw the recognition in his eyes. These were the same words he used on Arthur, when his mother died.

The Brit continued on the quote, not really wanting to hear it, but knowing that he needed to hear it from the one person who had told it to him first, "Whatever you happen to be feeling at the moment is fine with them. That's what real love amounts to - letting a person be what he really is."

Francis smiled, again, but this time the look in his eyes told Arthur that he was already halfway gone. So Arthur tried to ask questions, "Where is Selina?"

Francis tried to appear happy, but his words were sad. "She cut off ties to me… after she moved in with her boyfriend…a- a few years back. I haven't spoken to her… in near six years." Arthur shook his head, and then asked about his little sister, Mona.

"Mona…died a little while ago." Francis said, as he closed his eyes, and his forehead bead with cold sweat. He was trying to focus on anything but the pain, as he tried to remember his little quiet and gambling-fond sister. "She was a smoker, and she…she got hers sooner."

"What of…the ah," Arthur tried to remember what Francis had called his small circle of friends in high school. "What of the Bad Touch Trio?"

Francis chuckled, but then he coughed, and Arthur tried to pat on the back, only to flinch at how many wires were there. In the end, he did nothing but watch. Just as he always had.

"Gilbert, I think, is in Germany…with his little brother," the Frenchman took a breath, "His years of drinking...finally caught up with him, I guess. He's so sick…that he needs to be taken care of, he told me that…that he hates it."

Francis took a breath, held it and then continued, "Antonio, hm…Last I heard, he was working a…restaurant or bar or something…in-in Manhattan, with some…guy. We don't talk…don't talk much anymore…He's well, last…I heard," Francis said, and then he tried to shrug, "For the most part, anyways…just some heart problems. Diabetes and all that nasty shit…"

Arthur raised a brow at the random curse word from the usually clean-mouthed Frenchman. Francis seemed to ignore the look, as he took another deep breath, and then said, "Arthur…Waste no tears… over the grieves of yesterday…"

The Brit's lower lip trembled, as he said back, "I won't forget you, old friend."

Francis smiled, "I…know you won't." He smiled, "You remember…better than my own mother!" Francis had meant to laugh, had meant to make Arthur laugh, but all the Brit could do was cry. He just cried, as his friend's heart beats grew further apart and softer. He was singing, or reciting a poem, one or another, as the heart monitor threw a fit.

Beep.

"Dance as though… no on-one is watching you," the Frenchman sang softly, and Arthur found himself crying and smiling through each word. He felt his head loll to the unheard tune.

Beep.

"Love as tho…though you ha-have," the Frenchman continued, as his breaths grew shallower, and Arthur continued for him, "Love as though you have never been hurt before…"

Beep.

"Sing as though no one can hear you," Arthur sang softly, and Francis looked back at his friend with dreamlike eyes, happy to be spared of the energy, as he simply listened. He tried to twirl his finger, and Arthur caught, and interlocked them. He swung them as gently as he would do a baby, and saw how bright a difference came in Francis' darkening eyes.

Beep.

"Live as though heaven is on earth," Arthur finished, and he saw Francis smile. He leaned forward to kiss his long-time friend on the forehead, recalling how the other had done so when his other had died. Francis had always been there, through every turbulence in his life, he had stuck out thick and thin. He had never asked for anything, but Arthur's company.

And Arthur had granted him just that. He didn't want to believe that this was his fault.

Be-ep.
Be-ee-eep.

Arthur just sat there crying, still shaking his head, as he saw Francis' smile into death, how his eyes closed. How he spared Arthur the misery of seeing his eyes darken for another time. The next few moments were a blur for the Brit. He thought he was ushered out, but he couldn't be sure.

He felt someone pick him up, but all he remembered is something cold against something very soft. Unconsciously, he leaned into it, and smelt a blend of crushed ice, spiced wood and something sweet.

That was all he remembered of that day, for that he was grateful.

Another year later and Arthur was alone. Mathew had a nice little lady, with the next addition on the way, and he had called to say that he wouldn't make the flight. Ivan had moved back to Russia, to support his older sister overseas and his younger sister in rehab, saying he could no longer support both when he was half across the world.

Arthur stood next to fairly recent grave in the soil, it under the same tree as Alfred's was. It read:

FRANCIS JEAN BONNEFOY

JULY 14, 1969 – MARCH 2, 2012

A WONDERFUL FATHER AND BROTHER

A WISE FRIEND

Arthur patted the soil, his hair greyer than ever, but his smile was still there. He leaned against the gravestone, as he watched the sun set over the horizon. "Thank you…for everything, Francis."

Then, the older Brit stood up to leave behind his son and friend. He missed the sight of said person's ghost holding the shoulder of his son, as they both mouthed, "You're welcome" before they vanished into the near dark.

FIN.

OH MEIN GOTT. I CAN'T BELIEVE I HADN'T UPLOADED THIS YET. I TOTALLY THOUGHT I DID A LOOOONG TIME AGO.

But damn, this was sad. :(

At least, we get to see the softer and gentler part of France/Francis this time. I love him this way. And I am near 9000%+ sure that all of his fan girls love to see caring for someone else, and being kind. It brings tears to my eyes. :')

…Oh yeah, I thought I should mention…For any of you born on Feb.22nd…I'M SORRY. I JUST CHOSE IT AT RANDOM. I AM SO SORRY. MEIN GOTT, I APOLOGIZE SO MUCH.

:::

Quotes are:

Friends can help each other. A true friend is someone who lets you have total freedom to be yourself - and especially to feel. Or, not feel. Whatever you happen to be feeling at the moment is fine with them. That's what real love amounts to - letting a person be what he really is.

-Jim Morrison

Waste no tears over the grieves of yesterday.

-Euripides

Dance as though no one is watching you,
Love as though you have never been hurt before,
Sing as though no one can hear you,
Live as though heaven is on earth.
-Souza.

:::

Thank you, Waveripple of Team Sunrise, for giving me such a great opportunity in writing this. I admit I nearly cried at some parts, but I thought I did well in tying it up for the most part, and I hope you think so too. :')

...I have an Epilogue. Who wants it?

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