Sometimes we fall down and can't get back up.
Cancer.
Cancer of the fucking lungs.
Arthur had not even smoked before… it must have been all those late nights in smoke infested bars. He can picture the smoke coil around the bed ridden man. He watches as it wraps itself tenderly around his neck, tickling his Adam apple playfully. How it slides across his chest but no lower…
It caresses his lips with a loving touch, it fills his mouth touching every single corner with a hungry desire. It laces his tongue with an addictive, bitter sweet taste that he only ever experienced second hand. It is a second hand lover, it is an indirect kiss with people Alfred would rather see dead.
It is taking Arthur away from him, taking away the little light he had left.
Arthur is dying but Alfred may as well already be dead to the world. His eyes lay blank, brightening only when they settle on the small rhythmic rise of Arthur's chest as laboured breaths past his cracked lips. He wants to kiss the disease away, to caress the marks left by the smoke until only his imprint remains.
Until it stops killing him.
Thank you for reading. ConCrit is welcomed :D