NOTE.
This is a three-part story of loss and grief. There is an established character death...if you're looking for USUK stories with happy endings, I'm so sorry to say this isn't one...
I.
His fingers moved deftly, with a prowess and ease that came with many years of practice as he buttoned his shirt and swiftly looped his tie into a neat, symmetrical knot. In the next room, he could hear Francis playing the violin, as he had been doing every day, all day since Alfred came to stay over. It was a tribute, Francis had said, a tribute for someone both you and I loved dearly. Often, Alfred would stop to listen outside his door, closing his eyes and letting the tears fall as Francis dug his bow into his strings and made the music that Arthur had so desperately adored come alive. But today, they had business to attend to. Today, Alfred had to remain strong.
He fetched his tuxedo jacket and pulled it over his shirt before making his way through the narrow hallway to the next room over, the heels on his shoes making a soft clicking noise against the aging hardwood floor. Without knocking, Alfred turned the handle and stepped inside, letting the music overwhelm his senses.
Alfred wanted to stand back for a moment to simply listen to Francis pour his heart and soul into each note. But he couldn't. He would break down and, for his own sanity, Alfred could not allow himself to do that.
He took a step forward, choking back tears, yet hesitant to interrupt. Still, when he spoke, his voice was steady, calm—a little too calm. "Francis, are you ready to go?"
The music cut out instantaneously as Francis pivoted on his heel, peering with a sort of glazed curiosity over at Alfred. He lowered his instrument and bow, letting them hang at his side. For a brief moment, Alfred thought he saw tears in Francis's eyes.
But only for a moment.
"Ohonhon, mon cheri," Francis responded, the corner of his lips slowly curling into a smile, "You sure look handsome today." Alfred knew Francis was attempting to elicit a reaction from him, like he so often tried to do, but he also knew that the Frenchman was very half-hearted in his attempt today. Neither of them had been the same after Arthur's death, although Francis at least tried to carry on a semblance of his former self. Alfred, though...he couldn't remember the last time he smiled.
A month.
That was how long Arthur had been dead.
Alfred's eyebrows drew together into a small frown above the bridge of his nose. "Look," he said, his voice low, brimming with irritation, "If you don't want to go, I don't have to either. Frankly, I'd rather skip the whole ordeal."
At these words, Francis clicked his tongue like a mother hen before gently setting the bow and violin down on his work table. He strode forward towards Alfred and gently caressed the younger's face with his hands. Alfred turned away immediately, revolted. Francis frowned.
"You could at least treat someone courteous enough to give you room and board with more kindness, you know?"
"You forced me to live with you."
"Only for your own sake, Alfred. You were cooped up all alone in your home, moping and moping and moping. I was doing you a favor! Mon dieu, I swear you're becoming more and more like Arthur each da—"
"—SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP. DIDN'T I TELL YOU NEVER TO SAY HIS NAME?"
For someone who looked so composed a few minutes ago, Alfred was irate. His face was red, distorted with resentment, and his entire body was shaking, set in a pose that looked ready to punch Francis at any minute.
But Francis simply sighed. There was no use getting through to Alfred anymore, he knew. He tried, and he'd try, and he'd try, but it seemed as though everything Alfred was thinking was lost on him. It was like the world was just a big black spot in front of his eyes now that Arthur was gone—A darkness that would never be washed away.
Everyone knew that Arthur's death hit Alfred the hardest, but no one knew just how much.
Francis took his suit jacket hanging on the side of the table and tugged it on. "Alfred," he said, slowly—cautiously, as though prepared for a sudden strike, "It has been a month. You're going to have to let it go at some point." He grabbed Alfred's arm and mustered a weak smile.
"I know he was a very important person to you. He was a very important person to me too. So let us go to see his grave together, non?"