.
.
It's raining.
Arthur knows he should be going, soon he'll be late, but he just can't leave. Not when he can feel the rain hitting his cold skin through the window, not when there are tears in his eyes. There shouldn't be. Rain hasn't made him cry in decades.
Arthur's hand rests on a cooling side of his teacup; his fingers are stroking the smooth light surface. He isn't really sad with angry desperation like all the other times he's grieved. Drunken times, he admits, because in sober moments he forces himself to forget. Drinking was supposed to give that sweet ignorance he didn't even remember anymore. How ironic. He almost chuckles. Maybe it's all right if he won't go at all, only ponders when he should be in a rush.
When the rain trickles down as sinuous paths Arthur feels like he maybe shouldn't be angry. Alfred was not a soul that could be permanently bound away from his dreams. Maybe Alfred didn't even want to hurt, only stumbled in his youngness, hopes and instantaneousness.
Maybe Arthur had hold on too tight, feared Alfred to flee for forever. And not for nothing, he thinks bitterly.
It still hurts. And Arthur knows he's not going to apologize.
He hates himself for that.
.
.
A/N: Yeah. I suck.
I just realized this is really cliché, but damn, I had inspiration. ):