Panting heavily, Arthur dropped into the dirt and rolled to safety — if there was any place during a battle that could be considered safe — pressing his back up against the crumbling concrete of what was previously a fort. When is this god-forsaken battle going to end? I'm so fucking tired… His muscles ached, screaming for interlude. His face was smudged with dirt and his uniform smeared in blood, some his own and some not. A distant explosion pulsed through the air, sending vibrations down the concrete and through the Englishman's back, causing him to tense in unease. Inhaling deeply, Arthur's eyes slid shut as he attempted to gain his composure.
However, he was soon snapped out of his inattentiveness by the fierce loudness of gunfire. Arthur huddled down further as what sounded like a body thudded into the dirt, waiting in strained silence until the pounding of heavy boots departed. Deciding that it was unsafe to remain in the area, the Brit rose to his feet and was about to clear out when he became aware of pained moaning noises emitting from the direction in which the shooting had come from. Christ, Arthur, this is no time to check and see who's dying. You won't be able to help them anyway. Despite these thoughts, he seemed drawn to the noise and immediately felt his stomach drop at the sight, as it does when you miss a step while descending a flight of stairs.
"Oh… oh my fucking God." Carelessly, Arthur discarded his rifle with a clatter and dropped to his knees beside the battered body of, God help him, Francis. "Francis… Jesus Christ…"
—
Vision blurred both by tears and the sheer pain he was in, the Frenchman slowly opened his eyes, able to make out the form of another soldier. No, not just another soldier… Arthur. Vaguely, he was able to discern the words 'fucking', 'Francis', and 'Christ'. Good old Artie. Francis made an attempt to smile, though it was more of a grimace, his hands pressed tightly over the bullet wound in the left part of his abdomen. He was aware of the warm, sticky blood beginning to seep through his clothing and onto his fingers.
Arthur's hand slipped under his head, tilting it up slightly and giving him a better view of the Brit's gorgeous features, impoverished as they were by lack of sleep, dirt, and blood. And yet, he was still beautiful as far as Francis was concerned. "B… Bonjour…" he managed to breathe, wincing at the pain that shot through his side at the small movement. "Fucking hell… Francis…" was all Arthur seemed to be able to say, his other hand pressing against the Frenchman's cheek. "You… you're gonna be okay. I-It's all gonna be okay…" The Englishman's voice wavered and his eyes began to well up as he quickly removed his hands from Francis and tore off his camouflage jacket, balling it up and pressing it over the wound.
Smiling, Francis slowly lifted his arm not wracked with pain, his fingers finding and brushing against the dirty, flushed skin of Arthur's cheek. Gorgeous. "I…" he uttered, his smile fading and azure orbs suddenly becoming fearful. "I… don't want to die… scared…" Francis began trembling and coughed, which caused him more agony, his face scrunching up as his eyes stung with tears. "You're n-not gonna fucking die… you're not gonna die, you hear me?!" Arthur choked out. He must have known what he was saying was futile, yet the words still came forth. "Francis, you fucking idiot, you're not—" he hiccuped, "gonna d-die!" Tears streamed down from emerald optics, leaving tracks in the dirt that covered his cheeks.
Francis' eyes slowly opened once more and his arm fell back to his side, the older male's expression turning to one of what could almost be considered peace. "I'm glad I… got to see you one last time…" It was true that he was fearful of what death brought, but there was nothing to do now but accept it. There was a pause in which neither of them spoke and, suddenly, the light seemed to leave Francis' eyes, his tired body yielding into the nothingness that awaited him. There was a lump in Arthur's throat now and he broke down into hysterics, crying, "NO! No! Francis! Francis… Damn it, Francis…!" Gathering the corpse to his chest, body heaving with great sobs, the Brit was simply broken, his fingers running through that beautiful blond hair.
Enemy soldiers could hear him, probably, but he didn't care. All he cared about now was the fact that he would never again receive surprise visits, find roses in his mail, hear that lovely accent or that soothing heartbeat. Francis was gone, and there was nothing he could do about it. If only he'd told him…
"I love you! I fucking love you…!" he finally whimpered, his face buried against Francis' shoulder. It didn't matter now, though. He couldn't hear him.