Francis Bonnefoy peeked into the windows of the nearby shops, standing on his tip-toes and examining various knick-knacks. He slipped his hands into his trench coat and strolled along the pavement with his ever-present smile. Digging for his cell phone, he reached it out and began tapping on the keys to type a text message to Arthur.
"Bonjour, mon ami. Would you like to go out for lunch today?" he sent.
"Wanker, you know I'm busy with work. Leave me alone," spat out Arthur in his decline. Francis sighed. It wasn't as if he didn't expect that. He placed his phone back into his pocket, not wanting to bother Arthur more with a reply. He bit his frosty lips and shuffled along, less merrily now.
A young man clad in black uniform approached him from behind in silence. When Francis turned around to greet the boy, a shotgun whooshed out from behind him. He slammed Francis against a nearby brick wall and roughly pressed the weapon against his temple. The thug was shaking nervously, grasping the gun crookedly and breathing heavily.
"Take out your wallet. N-now," the man stuttered in a raspy voice. Francis fumbled through his jacket in fear, desperately searching for his money. Right when he was about to pull it out, police officers pulled up beside the two, with their flashing lights beaming and sirens blaring.
Francis's sigh of relief stuck frozen in the winter air when the thief interrupted him with a muttered, "Damn it." Before he could think twice, the man pulled the trigger against Francis's head and took off sprinting. Francis's body fell onto the pavement with a thud, maroon liquid flooding out of the wound. One officer dashed off to chase the criminal, the other rushed over to attend to Francis; but it was already too late. The policeman checked his pulse, which gave no result. He lifted the body into the car and gently placed Francis in the backseat. The fellow officer came running back about a minute later with his handcuffs still in his belt and no thief in his arms.
"He got away, Mark," he cursed frustratedly. The officer climbed into the seat next to his partner and buckled in. "We gotta get this guy to the hospital, we'll catch the kid later."
"He's dead," Mark mumbled with a swallow. They drove on to the hospital, where the workers checked his pulse one last time before shoving him off to the morgue and collecting his belongings. They extracted the contacts from his phone and called to notify the next of kin of Francis's passing.
"Hello," Arthur answered. Why was he getting a call from the hospital? Unpaid bills from his knee surgery a few months ago? Did he leave something there?
"Hello, is this Arthur Kirkland?" Mark asked.
"Yes, why?" he responded.
"I am deeply sorry to inform you that your friend, Francis Bonnefoy, was shot and killed today," the officer sympathetically stated. The other line went silent for a moment.
"Haha, very funny, frog. Happy early April Fools to you too," Arthur nervously laughed.
"I apologize for your loss, sir, but I'm afraid this isn't a prank. If you could, at any time to your convenience, please come by the morgue at Chelsea and Winchester to identify him."
Arthur felt something drain out of him and leave him empty. His mouth was left slightly agape with no sound able to come out. A clatter was heard as his iPhone dropped out of his hand and to the floor. His heart crumpled itself up and traveled its way to his throat, lodging itself in there as he sat back in shock.
"Sir? Sir? Is everything alright?" Mark asked into the phone. Arthur's widened eyes had already begun to well up with tears and he was shaking in disbelief. He listened to the voice emanating from his now cracked phone, not bothering to pick it back up and whispering a nearly inaudible "no". The news sank down to his core slowly but surely, and the more he became aware of what was happening the more he started to break down. He grasped his face in his palms, pushing back his shaggy blonde locks in agony. Hot, salty tears of grief poured out in painful sobs. Arthur collapsed onto the floor and curled into himself, laying there for hours that felt like infinity.
Arthur needed Francis. Sure, he was just fine with ignoring him for a while at a time, because he knew that he would always be there. Sure, they would argue and spit insults at each other constantly, but they would always end up having each other's backs. Sure, they'd act like they hated each other, but deep down they knew they didn't feel that way, right? Francis had to be there. Now Arthur was just alone. No one would be there to show up at his doorstep for a random mid-day drinking session, or to fight back and forth with at meetings, or to fill in the spot for the closest thing Arthur ever had to a best friend. A companion like Francis was impossible to find.
Some would describe their relationship as toxic, but they couldn't view the inside. If you could tear open the anatomy of their relationship, after you made your way past the almost non-stop arguments and harsh words, you'd see a sparkling core of mutual adoration. Arthur cherished this core, and now as he lay here on the freezing tile he prayed that Francis knew how much he loved him. In the distance his doorbell repeatedly rang, and Arthur composed himself just enough to answer it.
"Who is it," he choked out, rubbing his eyes.
"It's Al!" a distressed voice called. Arthur creaked open the door to greet his little brother Alfred.
"Did you hear about Francis?! It's so terrible!" Alfred yelled, not pausing to see Arthur's red face and bloodshot, watery eyes.
"Yes, I heard," Arthur murmured, twisting his fingers together.
"Holy shit, dude, you okay? You look awful," Alfred said.
"Of course I'm not okay. My best friend died today, and the last thing I said to him was rejecting his invitation for a lunch date and calling him a wanker. He probably died thinking I hate him, and he'll never know how much I adore him," Arthur replied.
"Aw, man, I'm so sorry. His death hit us all hard, but I figured it affected you the most," he apologized, gripping him into an awkward hug. The embrace triggered more waterworks from Arthur, and he fell apart in his sibling's arms. His hyperventilated breaths inhaled the smell of Al's cigarette smoke.
"I don't know- I don't know how- I don't know how to live without him..." Arthur heaved. Alfred knew comforting words couldn't fix the situation, so he just stood there holding him up and patting him on the back.
"I loved him..." Arthur whispered.
-5 months later-
Arthur clutched the bouquet of roses in his arm and trudged up the stone steps. His boots made squeaking noises against the dewy grass, smushing down the blades and leaving his size nine footprints behind. He ventured to the familiar spot he'd been visiting every weekend. He softly set the flowers beside Francis's headstone and stood there, trying so hard not to cry this time. Whenever he went there, he would always try to talk to him and tell him how much he meant to him, but he knew he was just speaking to a slab of cement. Arthur would always erupt into tears by the end of the visit.
Francis stood beside him, his invisible eyes glazed over in empathy. He wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist and rested his chin on his shoulder. Arthur breathed in the mist as it began to rain, soaking the flowers in water.
"Francis... I'm sorry I never got the chance to tell you how much I care about you. I really do; care about you, I mean. Like, a l-lot... Oh, for Christ's sakes. Why am I even doing this." He wiped his eye with his sleeve and sniffled in hopelessness.
"No, Arthur, please don't cry! Please, it's okay! I care about you too! So I don't want you to cry!" Francis reassured. He knew Arthur couldn't hear him, or see him, or feel him. But it was nice to just give him a hug on the weekends when he faithfully stopped by. All Francis wanted now was for him to be happy. It was painful to stare at the mess he made of Arthur's life by his passing, how horribly his death destroyed him. He felt like it was his fault. Arthur rubbed his eye again, stepping away from his grave and walking off.
Francis stayed behind, picking up the roses and smelling the wet petals. He looked in his pocket for something to write with, and pulled out a sharpie. He scribbled something on his headstone in his familiar, loopy cursive script.
Thank you, Angleterre
Love, Francis