Silent Conversations
"They allowed us to be married today."
A simple enough conversation starter, as they usually were between the old couple. Arthur won't say a word, he hasn't since his voice failed him years ago, but Francis knows he is listening. Even if he won't show it.
"I saw it when I woke, on the news… it's taken them this long; I'm surprised I lived to see it at all," the Frenchman chuckled, old fingers shaking as they unfold and refold in his wool trousered lap. "I'm glad, though, and I know you are too."
For a moment, he simply gazes out at the lake, the beautiful expanse of water where they've always come to love each other. Not, as many think, where they first met, but they've never fought at the lake. Not once. Not even the day Arthur was truly mad, for reasons still not divulged to Francis, but the sharp memory is softened by the knowledge that they also shared their respective first kiss, that day.
"I know you won't want to get married," he continued after a moment, smiling down at his beloved. "I would have liked to propose to you, on bent knee and all, although now I'm not sure I'd ever make it up again."
He paused a moment, to laugh softly, mostly at himself. The fingers untwine and reach into his pocket, retrieving a small white handkerchief. The careful embroidery in the corner mirrors his own handwriting in a way that Arthur could never achieve on paper, yet somehow managed to stitch into a rather elegant representation of his rather elegant name.
It was a horribly clichéd gift to receive, especially on a birthday, but when one's partner is as closeted a romantic as Arthur, you learn to appreciate the smaller things. Besides, the handkerchief had served him quite well, even if he never used it for its intended purpose. A keepsake, he always said, not something to be dirtied and washed into dust, however practical Arthur had intended the handmade gift to be.
Arthur, dear Arthur, whom he so wished to be married to. It seemed awfully sad, to him at least, that it was only now, in the late eighties of his years, could they be allowed to walk the aisle. And his dear partner didn't even want to be wedded, with the constant argument of we don't need a piece of paper to show we love each other, idiot cropping up at least once a month.
But it was these thoughts that kept him going, in the end, this silent conversation that began even before Arthur's speech was lost to cancer. The cancer itself, thankfully, was eventually rid of, but the damage to the poor Brit's throat was irreparable. Arthur didn't mind; he rarely was one for the spoken word anyhow, although it was silently, mutually agreed that the one thing they missed most was the arguing.
"I've wondered many times today what you'd say to this," Francis hummed softly, closing his eyes against the afternoon sun. "Your insults always were so original; I'm sure my imaginings aren't nearly as sarcastic or cutting as your true answer would be."
The soft breeze and the echo of a cleared throat reminds him that he's getting sentimental again, and ought to be focussing on the good things. This is their happy place, after all, the place they would always go, in good times and bad, to simply sit in silence and remind each other that, somehow, they had managed to fall in love and stay there.
"Eighty nine," he says, almost in awe of himself, shaking his head as the low chuckles return. "Would you believe that they'd pass it before my nineties? That's our bet to you, my dear, although I think we're both better off without the promised dinner. Perhaps a simple one to ourselves?"
Francis caught himself there, barely refraining from slapping his knee, although he lets out the laugh. "Your plan all along, I imagine. Nothing short of nuclear disaster is too drastic an excuse for you, is it?" He laughs again, giving his lover a fond look. "Don't worry, I won't be dragging you to any fancy restaurants in the not so distant future. We'll save that for when we're young again."
Astonishing, really, how he's lasted this long without the sweet voice of his most beloved enemy. No voice to scold him for brewing a simple cup of tea incorrectly, no voice harshly cursing its own clumsiness as yet another delicate appendage is banged against a table, no voice murmuring sweet nothings in Francis' old ears as he struggles t0 sleep in a cold, lonely bed.
Only three years, since Arthur left him, four since the cancer reappeared and one since his darling had been able to summon the strength to stand. Three years isn't long, particularly for an optimistic chap like Francis, but when those years are filled with the memory of someone you've loved for over seventy, they tend to recede into a bubble of grey.
Francis' bubble is close to popping, he's quite sure of that, has been for years, but he's glad he managed to hold on for that long. Arthur would be proud of him - he's even more sure of that - and he's rather proud of himself as well.
Many who knew him closely expected him to give up, but no, he knew Arthur would like that last piece of competition. If one was to outlive the other, it would have to be by enough to confirm it, no flukes.
Perhaps the moment was past, perhaps it was time for Francis to be seeing his dearest Englishman once again, perhaps tonight would be a lovely night to sleep and not wake again. Perhaps tonight was the night he would be lifted to heaven, deposited right into the arms of that wild blonde who most surely had an insult ready for him, and he'd waited three years to use it, so Francis had better get a move on.
"I still love you, just so you know. And I'll see you soon… I promise. Wait for me."
He slipped off dreamlessly, in the most simple way possible. And Arthur agreed quite steadfastly with him - it was time to turn up the volume on these silent conversations.