Blah! I wrote this out of boredom. It's short and not well written but then again I wrote it quickly and I'm in the middle of writers block T3T hopefully I will get some type of inspiration soon but for now this lousy piece of writing will have to work...
Disclaimer: I do not own anything if I did history would be warped...
Warning: Contains character death (I don't know why I can't write anything happy...)
Arthur stared at the empty side of his bed. For the first time in a long time it had been like this, when he couldn't curl up to a warm body peacefully sleeping next to him. On those cold, winter days when his blanket could only provide so much warmth. Bringing the blankets to his face he could no longer smell the familiar scent of hamburgers, fries, airplane fuel, and all of the other things he loved, for they had been washed by a maid who no longer worked for him,.
His study as little as he used it had remained untouched except for those moments when Arthur would run in hoping to see him sitting at his study. Now he had wished he would be sleeping in a pile of unfinished paperwork with doodles of Aliens and Mochis drawn on the corner.
The house they lived in was no longer a home, just a house, a house filled memories of their life before. His jacket which he had worn all the time had laid abandoned on the couch where he had left it when he ran out of the house in a hurry and hadn't returned.
The months changed and winter rolled around. It was the first winter he would spend alone. It wasn't until Christmas he realized living without him was too much of a chore. When he woke up early in the morning he had expected to see his bright face filled with childish joy. This time he hoped to be forced under a mistletoe he had no memory of hanging up, but nothing happened. Finally he realized how alone he was he sat up in bed and gently touched the vacant area next to him. His eyes scanned over to the blanket next to him. He gripped it, holding it tightly he brought it to his face and sobbed. He cried like he hit his head on the corner of the coffee table. He cried like he scraped his knee running down the stone streets of England as a child. He cried like he needed Alfred.