Warnings: References to terminal illness.


Time best spent with you

Francis comes home from work to find Arthur curled up on the sofa in the living room, a mug of tea in his hands and the telly on.

"You're late." He announces this casually, pointedly, but there is a question in there waiting to be answered.

"I am. Je suis desole, mon petit. There was some traffic." Traffic, Francis laughs inwardly. There was some indeed.

Arthur looks up at him, giving him a look over. "How was work?"

Francis shrugs off his coat onto the coat hanger by the door and sighs. "Stressful as ever, mon lapin. But it is to be expected with work, non?"

Arthur looks away, huffing a small, 'don't call me that arsehole,' under his breath. Francis comes over to him behind the sofa and slides his arms around his lover's shoulders, nuzzling his face into the fold of his neck. Arthur makes a small noise at the feeling of cold skin appearing suddenly on his throat but does not pull away, instead turns his head around to peck the Frenchman swiftly on the cheek.

"How was your day?" The question to the Englishman is sweet and innocent, yet it's not.

Arthur replies by tugging the material on the arm of Francis' jacket to get him to join him on the furniture, which Francis happily complies to.

"Boring, I guess. I managed to get some more of the book done though. About a few more chapters and it'll be finished."

Francis nods. "That's great. Anything else?"

"No."

There is a small pause.

"Any more headaches?"

"None."

Francis smiles, but it looks half strained and half sad. He ruffles Arthur's hair and detaches himself from the comfortable family setting he and Arthur have built cuddled up together on the sofa. Getting this comfortable and happy around the other has taken awhile, nearly five or six years, but to them it was worth it completely. Why can't they have longer?

"I shall make dinner then~" As Francis flounces to the kitchen, he notices Arthur get up and follow him.

"I could have made something, you know, I'm not incapable of cooking."

Francis laughed and waved a fork at his husband. Husband. How nice to use such a word.

"On that matter, Arthur, I will have to completely disagree with you."

The other scowls and flicked the offending fork away from his face, leaning against the counter and watching as Francis rummaged around for ingredients and utensils

They talk as Francis cooks, about nothing important or serious, in which they tease and joke just as they always have. They eat with conversation too, never in silence as that is not like them. Francis flicked a sauce-covered pea at Arthur which then unfortunately landed on one of this eyebrows and was the cause of a certain Frenchman being subjected to strangulation after laughing till he cried. They washed up with the Englishman in a stony silence until he dumped a handful of suds on a certain someone's nice shiny blond hair, after another passing remark about bushy eyebrows. The rest of their evening went the same way as it normally did too; they watched T.V curled up together on the sofa covered in a quilt which Arthur stitched one year and watching anything that was interesting.

When they went to bed however, a new type of normal took hold as Arthur got up in the middle of the night to be sick. As Francis swan into consciousness, he sighed. He tried to get Arthur to go to bed earlier because of this but he always refused, wanting to carry on as normal. He got up and stifled a yawn as he plodded into the bathroom to sit with his partner, husband of three years now. Where did that time go? He sat with him through it all, rubbing his back soothingly and whispering sweet nothings into his ear.

What scared Francis most though, was how 'normal' this felt, being awoken to the sound of retching nearly every night. It was something he thought he'd never get used to. He sat there with Arthur until he felt better, which was just about the time when he started grumbling at Francis for getting up when he didn't have to, you stupid frog, he didn't need him there. They both knew he was lying.


Arthur slept in the next morning, and was drowsy and slightly confused when Francis called work to let them know that he couldn't make it. They understood.

Arthur moaned at him then when he found out what he'd done, telling him to leave him to it, he'd be fine, but they both knew Francis worried. And for good reason, though Arthur refused to agree, though he knew it was serious.

Arthur had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour about five months ago. It wasn't cancerous, just a large growth in the depths of his brain which was slowly growing and killing him but that couldn't be reached by any surgeon in the world, though Francis had tried all he could to find one. He still remembered coming home to Arthur having a seizure on the living room floor, laying there still and unresponsive afterwards as the Frenchman frantically phoned for an ambulance. Francis thinks that his world stopped that day.

Arthur had always had headaches, for as long as Francis had known him which was a very long time indeed. About two years into their marriage however, they had started to get worse, some days they would leave Arthur clutching his head in agony and Francis worriedly massaged his forehead to try anything to relieve his pain. Their doctor had prescribed migraine medicine but Francis had a feeling something was more seriously wrong and urged Arthur to have some more tests done, just in case. He had refused, he didn't like doctors or hospitals and getting him to go to their GP was bad enough. After his first seizure though, the hospital had told Francis there was little that could have been changed even if they had come in sooner, there was nothing they could do for him then or now. They were truly sorry.

They both hated that word.

Francis remembers driving home in a terse silence that night. Arthur was discharged, they had given them both some leaflets and numbers, some pain relief, a sorry look, and an expiry date, but they couldn't do anything more so they let him go. Keep him rested, keep him healthy. He's had many more seizures since then, but none as scary or as earth shattering.

They went to bed early that night, clutching each other tight under the sheets and crying until they couldn't anymore before just laying there, staring at each other and talking of everything and anything they could. Just to stay awake longer, to have more time with each other. Why hadn't they taken that holiday when they had that money saved? Why did they spend so much time dancing around each other before getting together, why didn't they have the balls to just ask the other out? Francis hated these questions; Arthur preferred not to talk about them. Both however felt cheated; of a life they could have had together but now had a definite ending to.

Sometime soon.

They were supposed to grow old together.

After more tests, it was determined that at the tumour's current stage he had about seven months, they said, give or take because everyone is different. It could be years yet; they should make the most of each other and enjoy the time they had. And they did, Arthur resigned from work and started to peruse writing a novel of his own, trying to fulfil a long put off childhood dream. They were lucky too that Francis' work was very accommodating; they understood their situation and gave him time off and distance when needed. They had so little time, yet so much of it. It wasn't fair. Arthur looked so healthy, apart from the odd drowsy spell, the ever painful headaches and the nausea he was just as he always had been. But now they knew, they knew how little they could have left, how much they may have.

So when Francis was on his way home from work that night, he was on the way home to Arthur, to see him and to love him as he did every day. The oncoming vehicle which swerved onto his side of the road put a sudden and unexpected stop to that. Lights suddenly blinded him, his vision turned white then black and his body felt weightless.

He wasn't ready to die.

He couldn't die.

He had things to do, he had places to go and things to take care of, Arthur to take care of, Arthur to love. Oh god, Arthur. He didn't need his death; he didn't need to be alone now, not with that thing in his head crushing his life. Francis couldn't die, he wouldn't die. No matter what.

He was too needed.

So he fought against the strange tug that pulled at his very soul, pulled himself back into the realm of the living, to his life, to Arthur and thought of nothing else. Voices in his head, resounding all around told him he needed to go, it was his time, you see. You couldn't fight against your time.

He begged with them. Pleaded with the nothingness that was around him, where ever he was and told them he couldn't go, no matter what they said, there had to be some way. They struck a deal then, just for him, just because he was so needed by another and he made an offer so selfless. He would do anything to stay.

But something cannot be given for nothing.

Not for things like this.

When Francis returned to Arthur that night, there had been traffic on the roads caused by a violent collision. News stations had started reporting that a lorry had hit a tree after swerving out of its lane and into another. No one knew the cause of the accident; there were so many factors that could have been its cause, drink, that large patch of ice, the strong winds, or tiredness from the driver. The driver was killed instantly, though it's very lucky that no one else was hurt in something like that. It was causing a lot of traffic and Arthur was worried as the road was one which his partner usually frequented on his drive home from work. He was so relieved when Francis walked through the door, safe and healthy.

Though he wasn't.

Francis bargained himself that night, his soul to stay with Arthur until he was no longer needed. He no longer needed to breathe, though he could, and his hair would never grow. A small part of him was glad that he hadn't shaved in a few days; he now at least had his beard to keep. He could walk and talk, his heart pumped blood through his veins but he didn't get hungry, his heart rate wouldn't quicken for anyone or anything other than Arthur for it was only he that was keeping Francis alive. His heart now beat for no other.

Without Arthur, Francis was nothing. When Arthur died, Francis would die, before it was metaphorical but now it was literal. Personally, Francis would have it no other way but he knew Arthur would be furious with him if he knew. He didn't care.

He didn't know what would happen to him when Arthur finally went, where would his soul go? What would happen to his body, it was already dead after all. He was scared of these questions and the answers they may bring, but he could see no other possibility, he could not, would not leave Arthur, and could not live without him. This sacrifice, this insignificant little sacrifice, was the least he could do.

They went out for a romantic dinner the next evening.

He regretted nothing.


AN:

I don't know, I'm sorry. D: I just had a flash of an idea that had to be written down before it was forgotten and I really needed a distraction from my writer's block which is stalling my other fic. I'm sorry if this causes offense or anything to anyone, I really don't mean anything by this. If there's anything that you feel is wrong with this, anything that I could improve on please leave a review to let me know or leave me a review to just let me know what you thought, I'd love to hear from you all. ^-^

This is my first actually depressing thing that I've written here, and I honestly don't know how I feel about it. :/ I'll probably go back some other time and improve on the length or even make it a 2 shot but I really don't know. xD

I hope at least that it made for good reading, so thanks for taking a look. :)

~Heroes~