Residual
Because in the end, life is only a collection of what memories remain.
"Don't worry, the hero never dies!"
Arthur could not prevent the dropping of his mouth. Never die, he thought silently. Of course heroes die! They would not be heroes if they ran away from problems; they either solve them or die trying. That's the very definition of the term 'hero.' The man does not get the chance to voice such things before Alfred is talking again, "You shouldn't worry so much! People might begin to think you actually care for me."
"I do not," he denies as he has for the past several years, "I am simply trying to knock some sense into that tremendously thick skull of yours!"
Alfred waves a hand between them, trying to dismiss the rising anger in the other's voice, "Sorry, sheesh. Don't get your panties into a twist, I was only joking. I know you can't stand me."
"Of course I can't, you git! You're just another egotistical," but even as Arthur continues to list all the unappealing things about the blond leaning against the doorway to his kitchen, he notices something in the normally happy blue eyes. He does not care for the tightness in his chest one bit.
Arthur does not know why it happened. One moment he was walking down the street, arguing with Alfred as they often did. The words were harsh, but the tones they were said with spoke more than either was willing to admit. The next moment someone was running up to them, causing them to pause in their chatter. A gunshot had thundered through the night air with such stunning clarity that Arthur was frozen for a moment. Red had blossomed across his lower stomach with a dark hole at its center. His hands had not trembled as they closed around the injury before he had collapsed.
The next thing he knows, he was laying on a pristine hospital bed with a head resting near his thigh.
He can't stop the small smile from worming its way onto his lips as he watches Alfred sleep. His fingers do not wish to respond but he forces them to crawl forward until they lay hidden in the other's darker blond hair, curling around some of the strands. He loves the man at his side. Loves him with all that he can muster, yet he will not tell him. Alfred, his beloved, is over a decade younger than him and he will not add the weight of his affections onto those sturdy, naïve shoulders.
A sigh leaves him slumping into the hard pillows, eyes focusing on the thin panels that make up the ceiling. It is so hard to always be around the younger male and not be able to be more than his friend, rival. His hand tugs lightly at Alfred's hair but it fails in waking him. Arthur allows his eyes to slip shut in defeat, deciding to wait until later to sort through the mess his heart and mind are. His last thought is of how much painkillers the nurses gave him.
He can't feel anything below his navel.
"A-Arthur-"
"I said I'll get it," he cuts off Alfred sharply, eyeing the ringing phone with hate. Its only a handful of steps away from where he lays on his bed. He can do this.
Using the energy that most people think he has lost, the man pushes himself into a sitting position. Hands holding his right leg a bit above his knee, Arthur tosses the limp over the side of his four poster bed without hesitance. This nearly drags him down with it, but warm hands are on upper arms, steadying him without request or permission.
"Fuck off!" He swats Alfred away harder than what is necessary. The young man backs away quickly, and Arthur dismisses the apology on his tongue. Alfred understands, he has too. Arthur does much the same with his remaining leg though his movements are a tad slower, more calculated. The mattress sinks under his weight as he steadies his hands on it. One good push should result with me on my feet, he thinks to himself. It is with more faith than he has any reason to posses that the man shoves away from the bed he has more or less been restrained to for the past month.
For one blessed second he is standing again. No one is holding him up and nothing is supporting him. A smirk of triumph splits his face in half as he meets the gaze of his best friend. Doubt lingers under a fine layer of shock in those blue eyes and the world collapses underneath Arthur. His knees fold until they crash against the hardwood floor, throwing him sideways. His hip hits next, and in the back of his mind he is aware that it should hurt but no pain registers. He catches himself with his hands and Alfred is there, trying to pull him up.
"Go," Arthur mutters, just keeping the shame out of his voice. Alfred either does not hear him, or he does not care because he slides one of Arthur's arms over his shoulders. He tells him to go again and this time Arthur knows that the blond is ignoring him. His teeth grind against each other with annoyance. Can't Alfred just leave him to dwell in his own self-pity alone?
"I said go!" Alfred keeps moving them back to the bed despite the harsh glare burning into the side of his face. Gentle hands lift Arthur back onto the sometimes too soft bed and the older man ducks his head.
Alfred never knows when to just quit.
"What?!" Blond locks fall across his forehead as Alfred fixes his stare upon the ground at his feet.
"I'm going to war," he whispers again.
"You are not," Arthur barks, hands tightening in the untidy blankets that surround him. He sees the other flinch at the words, but cannot find it in himself to cool down. Didn't Alfred know that people died in war? The chances of him coming home are so little and the chances of him coming back the same man are nonexistent. Arthur had been in war. He knew what it could do to a mind like Alfred's.
"They need soldiers. Heroes like me," Alfred tries to defend his, position but he can already tell that the other is having none of that. Anger flares to life in his chest and he shouts out, "Why should I stay!?"
The silence pressed down on their eardrums as the surprise fades from Arthur's face. His heart jerks uncertainly in his chest and the perfect answer pops into his head. Because I love you. He parts his lips to say it, willing to throw away what scraps of pride he retains if it means saving the younger man. Yet, words fail him. Arthur turns his head away sharply, refusing the acknowledge the tears blurring his vision. Why can't I say it?
Alfred, innocent Alfred misinterprets his actions and sighs softly. Arthur stays still as the man he loves leaves the room quietly.
"I-I."
Pale light illuminates the dark figure hovering near one of the few open windows in all of the sleeping village. Arthur does not pay any mind to the goose flesh rising on his exposed arms; emerald eyes locked on the dark sky above him. A shiver begs to trail its icy fingers down his spine, but he is very far from the quiet forests of his homeland. He is with a young man that has lost his way in the blistering hot countries to the south east.
At least, his heart and mind are. His body, however, is stuck in the place he had been born in. He is trapped in the town that had brought so much joy and peace to his life. Now, though, every corner was another painful memory he did not wish to lose himself in. Skinny arms wrap around his body in an unconscious bid to chase the chill from within. The bones in his hands are far too pronounced as his dirty nails bite into his sun deprived skin.
A sob demands to be released, but his vocal cords are too stiff to cooperate. He has cried all the tears he could have ever managed and yet it is not enough. It never will be. Arthur stares unseeingly at the moon, wondering if Alfred knew that he was still waiting for him. Unclean teeth tear into the tender flesh of his inner cheek, reopening old wounds as surely as his mind was.
Arthur tilts his head against the back of his wheelchair, hands tracing the cool object that rests in his lap. The small dagger is not as sharp as it might have once been but it would be more than enough.
For once Francis is silent as he dabs at Arthur's forehead with a damp rag, collecting the sweat there and cooling it at the same time. Arthur tries his hardest to slow his harsh breathing, but it bears no fruit. He just can't. Fever is taking so much out of him that he can no longer keep track of the days. Arthur tries to relieve the itching along the insides of his wrists, but a colder, stronger hand stops him. He grumbles quietly in rebellion.
"Don't," Francis's voice is harder than Arthur can recall it ever being, "You'll reopen the cuts."
He cannot be bothered to feel shame as hot tears slip down the sides of his face, darkening his pale hair. Even something as simple as ending his own life he had failed to achieve. He cannot walk. He cannot tell Alfred how he feels. He cannot keep going and yet he cannot end it all either. Failure. That is what Arthur Kirkland has been reduced to: A failure.
"That is quite enough!" Green eyes flicker towards the man, but he receives no other reaction. Francis stomps to where Arthur has been since that night when he had walked in on him trying to take his life. He shakes the empty shell of a man, forcing Arthur to try to push him away. Arthur grunts with the effort, but to no avail.
"You are getting up, do you hear me?" He blocks out Francis's words, choosing to stare at the white ceiling above him. There is no reason for him to possibly listen to the other man. If he was lucky, Francis would just get angry enough to storm out the double oak doors and never return. A harsh shove sends the blond rolling out of his bed and he is stunned when his face collides with the decidedly cool hardwood.
"Y-you bastard," he shouts at where he knows Francis is standing; he pushes himself onto his side to follow the words up with a glare.
"I am? What is a weak ass like you going to do about it?!"
"I'm going to kick your ass, that's what," Arthur snarled, pushing himself into a sitting position with a twisted sneer. His heart thunders in his chest as he snatches the first thing to come within reach and throws it with all his power at the irritating man. Francis laughs cruely as a sock hits his chest, bouncing off without causing any damage.
"Is that the best you've got? What a pathetic waste!"
"Shut up!" A plastic cup is the next object thrown.
"Ha! No wonder Alfred fled. Who would want a sad little man like you? Guess I'll just have to show him what a real man-"
"Don't you dare," Arthur rages as his fingers curl around the handle of a hair brush he has not seen in more than a year. It flies through the air with odd precision but Francis merely dodges it with a quick sidestep.
"And why should it matter to you what I do with that delicious-"
"Because I love him you prick!"
"Then why are you giving up when you know he hasn't?" Francis's words lose their sharp edge and Arthur stares at him in shock.
"Why?"
He navigates over the slight bump that marks the threshold of his newly acquired home, relaxing as the sun's warmth touches his skin. Green eyes blink once at the clear sky before they refocus on the path in front of his wheelchair. Arthur rolls himself towards the outskirts of his hometown at a calm pace. He mindlessly avoids a sudden dip in the road as he has for the past four months. Humming birds pick at his blossoming garden gently, careful not to harm the flowers in their attempts to gain food.
Arthur pauses to look down at the two types of spring blooming plants he has. Pinks and faint purples are intertwined in varying shades of green and he smiles slightly. After Francis had force him to see what he had been doing, the man had taught Arthur about the 'language of flowers.' It was befitting that the two he had chosen to plant meant 'Timid hope' and 'I will try again.'
He moves past the Liatris and Cyclamen, determined to reach the edge of town to see if Alfred was arriving today. As he has everyday.
Five years. He had watched the man he could almost call brother go through so many ups and downs. He had been forced to take the enemy's side in order to finally knock sense into that thick skull of Arthur's and the man had been reborn. Arthor had regained everything he had lost when he lost his legs.
Francis bites his bottom lips as his eyes trace the name carved into the stone at his feet. Arthur deserved more than this.
A sigh slips past his lips as he squats down, twirling several plants between his nimble fingers. The first two he lays down without hesitance, speaking to Arthur, "Olive and Rosemary. They mean 'peace' and 'remembrance.'"
His eyes linger on the last one, knowing that it was the least he could do for the blond man that he could no longer banter with. Francis places it down between the others, "This one is Yarrow. Its the 'cure for a broken heart.' Perhaps if I had given it to you sooner, hm?"
Teeth grit to keep back the bitter tears; he sits down on the freshly cut grass uncaring if his white pants get dirty. A breeze pulls on his long hair playfully, but he ignores it in favor of staying by Arthur's side. As he has for so many years and as he will for years to come.
Author's Note: Well, I made myself cry so I guess that counts for something. I may or may not do one in Alfred's point of view. Not sure. I hope you all enjoyed this. Leave me a review telling me what you liked, hated, yada yada.